


It's Dark Inside

by AlaskaMarina



Series: Darkly Dreaming Dean [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Alternate Universe -Dexter, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Alternative Universe - FBI, Angst, FBI Agent Castiel, Limited Supernatural Elements, M/M, Serial Killer Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-18
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-08-13 08:10:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7969030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlaskaMarina/pseuds/AlaskaMarina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ten years after Castiel rescues a frightened little boy from a house fire, the kid shows up in his life again, partisan to an unrelated case. Now the son of a wanted criminal-- and covered in bruises-- it's clear the mysterious boy needs his help once again. But does Dean want to be saved? </p>
<p>Prequel to "Where My Demons Hide"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_"I matter to you. Don't I?"_

_Cas doesn't know how to answer. For years now, this case has been hanging over his head. It's kept him awake at night, it's haunted his dreams. It's been like a thorn in his side, nagging at him, something he knows he has to take care of before he can move on with his life. His White Whale. Of course this case matters to him, but..._

_Does Dean?_

_Dean himself? The person? The criminal? The scared little boy?_  

* * *

There's a nutjob desecrating graves across the country. A nutjob digging up strings of seemingly unconnected corpses, and leaving them open and  _burning_. A nutjob with a black car. A nutjob with a license plate a witness has finally managed to grab. 

Detective Diana Ballard stares at the idling fax machine, her anxiety reaching roller coaster levels. After a year and half of trailing this sucker-- who, as far as they can tell, has been active a great deal longer than that-- they are finally going to have a name. 

The machine springs to life, spitting out the piece of paper that will change everything. 

_Licence No. : BQN-9R3_

_Make/Model: Chevrolet Impala_

_Year: 1967_

_Color: Blk_

_Registered to: John Winchester_

* * *

_Winchester_.

Agent Novak picks up on the name and isn't sure why. 

It's none of his business. Some of the more senior agents are discussing a case that just came over the wire. From what he can make out, someone has been crossing state lines, digging up graves and setting them on fire. Strange, to say the least. But it seems they'd only just recovered a name: Winchester.

_Winchester. Winchester._

Why does that name sound familiar? Why is it setting off that unsettling buzzing beneath his skin? Where has he heard it before? 

Agent Milton catches him staring at Cas quickly returns to his own work, running down a list names for possible connections to a rising local drug cartel. 

It's nothing to do with him anyway. 

Right?

* * *

 "Get down on the ground and put your hands behind your head," Pete orders.

The middle-aged man obeys, kneeling quickly.

The suspect is a big fish, dangerous, smart, and expertly-trained. An ex-marine, he's known to have violently taken out the police on three separate occasions, not even mentioning all the other times he is suspected of having talked, conned, or snuck his way out of sticky situations with the law.

He has no proven body-count, but has shaky connections to at least a dozen suspicious deaths

Three years, Pete Sheridan has spent tracking down this nutjob. The nutjob with the black car. The nutjob who's been desecrating graves; digging them up in the middle of the night and, get this, _salting_ and _burning_ them. A year, it had taken, to identify the pattern. Another six months for a license plate. And even after they had a name, another eighteen before the guy finally slipped up.

They caught him in a small town near Chicago, digging up the grave of a known runner for the Tiger Lily drug cartel.

And now, finally, they've got him.

* * *

  _Winchester_.

The name pops up in a meeting about the Tiger Lily cartel of all topics. Cas has been sitting in, taking notes to assist his boss, Agent Milton, with the case.

Over the past year, Anna has become the bureau's rising star. Only a few years more experienced than Cas, she's already managed to land lead on a case that has the potential to become one the biggest Chicago has ever seen. Within the two short years since it first appeared on their radar, the burgeoning cartel has expanded exponentially, sweeping through the Chicago streets, wiping out or absorbing all the competition, dropping bodies left and right. No one has ever seen anything like it. It seems impenetrable, with no opposition willing to stick its neck out and risk getting beheaded by the massive entity. 

Except, perhaps one. 

Apparently, the feds have finally figured out a connection between the graves chosen by John Winchester, the "nutjob" responsible for de-earthing and burning corpses all across the country. And it seems at least half of his known crime scenes have been at the gravesites of proven cartel associates. While the others appear random in choice, there is speculation that they, too, are connected to the cartel in some way that only John knows. Or at least, he believes it so. 

John Winchester, it seems, has taken it upon himself to do what no one else outside of law enforcement has been willing to do, and is taking on Chicago's largest drug cartel single-handedly. Admittedly, his approach is strange and, as he is only going after those already deceased, ineffective. But then, he is a nutjob after all. 

Right?

_Winchester. Winchester._

Something about that name drives Castiel crazy. He finds it impossible to focus for the rest of the meeting, instead rolling the name around inside his tingly brain. 

_Winchester. Winchester._

When the meeting lets out, Cas heads straight for his desk and searches the name. What he finds makes his heart stop.

* * *

Having secured the driver, the police team moves in toward the sleek, black car, looking for weapons or accomplices.

"Wait!" The man cries.

But they pull the doors open all the same...

And reveal two young boys huddled in the back, terrified, holding onto one another for dear life.

Shit.

"Daddy," the youngest whimpers. The older shushes him silently.

"Please don't hurt them," the man begs.

Pete has to admit, he's seen a lot crazy shit in his time. But he did not see that coming.

* * *

  _Winchester_.

Castiel sits at his desk, staring at his computer with his mouth hanging open.

What are the odds? Too high to be a coincidence. 

Years ago, Castiel was part of a team that raided a civilian's house after a 911 call indicated an unidentified suspect had invaded their home and taken the mother, Mary Winchester, hostage. Rather than come quietly, the maniac had chosen to set the house on fire with himself and all the family members still trapped inside. The father had gotten separated from his two young sons, choosing to stay behind in an attempt to rescue his captive wife. 

Having failed, John only just made it out of the house and into the crowds of waiting emergency personnel only to find, to his horror, that his boys had not. 

Cas and the others were told to wait for the fire department to arrive, but they all knew there was more than just the fire to worry about: There was a madman in that house. Cas, his boss, and a few others snuck off, searching the perimeter as best they could. 

* * * 

_Cas is just rounding the back corner when he hears the faint sounds of coughing. He pulls open the door, ignoring the hot metal burning his skin, to find a terrified, ash-covered little boy clutching a swaddled bundle to his chest like it is the most precious thing in any world: his baby brother._

_The two are trapped by a fallen beam, stuck behind a growing wall of smoke and fire. There is a terrible odor in the air, like burnt rubber and sulfur. A sticky yellow substance clings to the walls. Cas calls for aid, but the roar of the flames consumes his smoke-raspy voice. Cas takes another look at the suffering boys and steps into the burning building without hesitation. He stumbles on the crumbling floor. As he slips, his hand flies out for support landing in one of the sticky spots on the wall. It could just be his C02-hazy mind, but he imagines the stuff burns like acid._

_He trips again, leans over the fallen beam and reaches for the young boy's hand._

_"Come with me," he says. But the boy just stares at him, half-delirious with the heat and oxygen-deprivation. He hugs the little bundle tighter to his chest. Cas doesn't have time to think. He reaches over and grips the boy's bare arm, hauling him and his brother up and over the fallen beam with one hand as easily as he would a rag-doll. The boy winces where Cas's goo-coated hand connects with his skin and Cas thinks, slightly guiltily, maybe he hadn't imagined the acid bit after all._

_He sets them both down and the boy stares up at him with eyes wide with disbelief._

_He coughs, "How- How did you-?" He breaks off in a coughing fit._

_The fire department has finally arrived. They and some EMTs are racing over to their location. Cas glances their way then back to the boy who is still staring up at him in unbridled awe._

_He stares at his own burning hand, then looks to the boy, silently raising a finger to his own lips. The boy's eyes grow even larger, but he nods, seeming to understand._

_Cas crouches down. Afraid to touch the boy again, he simply looks into his shining green eyes._

_"You're safe now," he says._

_"Thank you."_

_The EMTs rush in and sweep the boys off into their father's waiting arms._

* * * 

That was ten years ago. 

Ten long, stress-filled years ago.

Now, apparently, the man, John Winchester, has taken up some sort of vendetta against the Tiger Lily drug ring.  _And_ they've just brought the nutjob in. 

Along with his two sons. 

* * *

They take all three family members back to the station, throwing the old creep into a detention cell and leaving the boys in interrogation. Together. No one in the station has the heart to split them up, as the younger is constantly teetering on the verge of tears. He keeps asking for his dad, while the older has yet to say a single word except to hush his inconsolable little brother and tell him it's going to be alright.

Pete knew John Winchester had sons, of course. But all his information had suggested that he left them behind. The detective has no evidence to suggest that the man was dragging them around the country with him on his grave robbing slash murder spree. The very idea of it seems barbaric and yet the truth is undeniable: The boys are there. Scared, confused, and covered from head to toe in scrapes, scratches, and bruises.

What the hell has he been doing to these kids?

Social services are called immediately. They arrive and talk to the boys separately and then together. And what they discover is disturbing to say the least. The ten year old can barely keep himself together. Once separated from his older brother, all he does is ask for him, beg for him, his dad suddenly very far from his mind. It quickly becomes apparent his bruises are not the result of little boys' roughhousing. They're layered and repetitive. Like he's been hit in the same places over and over for a long period of time. He flat-out refuses to talk about them, even tries to hide them. Classic signs of abuse.

He asks where his dad is once. Only once. Then goes back to insisting to see his brother.

The older boy is harder to read.

* * *

  _Winchester._

Castiel considers suggesting, oh so subtly, that he be the one to travel to the small township where Winchester and his sons are being held as the federal liaison. But Anna saves him the trouble, assigning herself and Cas to head over and investigate.

Cas is quiet on the car ride, only half-listening to Anna rattle on about nutjobs and drug ring leaders. He stares out the window, feeling the sparks spread across his skin as they grow closer and closer to their destination. Something big is brewing. He can taste it in the air as they move in toward John Winchester and the boys from the fire. 

When they arrive, the sensation has grown almost unbearable. Staring at the exterior of the little police station, Cas has the sudden urge to get back in the car and drive as quickly and as far away as possible. But of course he doesn't. Can't.

They meet with the lead detective on the case and he fills them in on the investigation so far, ending with the news that both John Winchester and each of his sons are currently being interviewed. Anna heads off to listen in on John's interrogation, leaving Cas behind with Sheridan.

Something stirs in Cas's gut at the idea of the boys actually being here. The young green-eyed boy from the fire, the only person on earth who knew of his...abilities, the first life he'd ever saved, is here, under the same roof as he is once again. Cas suddenly finds himself wishing he could talk to him, as inappropriate as that might be. But John Winchester only has tenuous ties to his boss's case, and his sons even more so. Nothing short of a miracle would allow him to lay eyes on that child again.  

* * *

Karen needs a miracle. 

"Where's my brother," the boy demands again, "What did you do with Sammy?"

"He's fine. He's with my partner."

In all her years as a social worker, Karen has to encounter a set of abused siblings quite so co-dependent as these boys seem to be.

"I wanna see him. I wanna see him now. You can't keep us apart."

"We're not going to," Karen answers calmly, "I just want to talk to you for minute. Is that okay with you?"

"Does it matter?" The boy huffs, "What do you want?"

"I want to help. If I can."

"What makes you think I need help?"

"You and your brother have got an awful lot of scrapes on you."

"We're kids. Scrapes happen."

"Most kids aren't being hauled across the country by their father."

Dean shakes his head.

"You know you're dad's mixed up in a lot of sketchy things, Dean."

"You don't know anything."

"So, tell me."

"Why? You won't believe me anyway. You've already made up your mind."

She tries and tries, but an hour later she's still gotten nothing out of the fourteen year old but clever blocks and evasive wisecracks. He's unusually smart, incredibly sharp, and impressively stoic. Three factors that, on top of the usual teenage stubbornness, make it near impossible to get a kid to do something he doesn't want to do. Which, in this case, is talk.

After an hour, she decides it's time for both of them to take a break. She leads him out of the room, intending to win him over, at least partially, at the vending machines.

"Hungry?" She asks.

"No."

But suddenly the kid's mouth falls open and his eyes grow to the size of soccer balls.

Karen frowns and turns to look. She sees a couple of detectives standing by a desk, discussing some paperwork. Nothing remarkable, but the kid looks like he's just seen the holy ghost descend.

"It's him," he whispers.

"Who?"

Dean's eyes are fixed on one of the detectives. He's barely even breathing.

"It's the Angel."

"What?"

Dean snaps out of it abruptly and looks up at her with that same air of bitter indifference.

"Who is that?" He asks nonchalantly.

Karen looks back over but she doesn't know either of the detectives.

"I don't know. Would you like to speak to them?"

"No."

"Would you like me to find out?"

The kid hesitates, shuffles his feet.

"Yeah. You know, whatever. It's not a big deal."

But Karen can see it is a very big deal.

"Wait here."

The kid half shrugs half nods. She knows it's the most committal confirmation she's going to get out of Dean.

She leaves him on the bench and approaches the two men.

"Excuse me?"

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

"Excuse me?"

Cas turns to see a slight woman with blonde hair and glasses, staring up at the two of them.

"Yes?" Pete asks, impatiently.

"I'm sorry to bother you, but do either of you know that young man over there?"

Cas follows her finger and nearly chokes on his coffee.

There, sitting on a bench across the office, staring at him like he was the second coming, is a young boy with startling green eyes.  _Familiar_ green eyes.

"Of course," says Pete, "That's Winchester's kid. Well, one of them. Aren't you supposed to be interviewing him?" He asks, eyeing her badge. 

The woman bristles lightly, "We're taking a little break," she says, "He's had a stressful day." 

"I'm sure," says Pete disinterestedly, turning back to his papers.

Cas, meanwhile, can't look away. He feels like he's seen a ghost. 

"How is he?" Cas manages, barely above a whisper.

The woman finally turns to look at him, "Not too great," she admits, "Are you working on his case?"

"Not exactly," says Cas, still staring at the boy.  _Dean_ , he remembers from the files. 

The woman sighs, "Then I'm afraid I can't--"

"I met him once," Cas interrupts, not entirely sure why, "Years ago. He wasn't doing 'too great' then either."

"You know him?" 

"Can I talk to him?" Cas hears himself ask. 

"I'm not sure if--"

"FBI," Cas says, flashing his badge, "I need to talk to him."

"Oh," the woman says, a little startled, "Well, then." She gestures with her hand and leads Cas over.

The boy's eyes never stray from Castiel's as he approaches. When he reaches him, Castiel holds out his hand. Dean takes it without hesitation and allows Cas to pull him to his feet. 

Cas feels a strange little jolt when they touch. Like a static shock but  _bigger_ , deeper. One look in Dean's eyes and Cas knows he felt it too. They let go. 

"Hello," says Cas, feeling a little awkward, "My name is Castiel Novak."

"Dean Winchester," the boy says quietly.

"Would you care to talk to me for a minute?"

The boy swallows hard, then nods his head silently.

"Good," says Castiel.

* * *

 _Castiel._ His angel has a name.  _Castiel,_ Dean thinks over and over,  _Castiel, Castiel._ It's a beautiful name, he realizes. Exotic, holy even. And wholly worthy of his Angel.  

Dean sits across the large table from the man who saved his life, from the man who, more importantly, saved  _Sammy_ , and waits. For the first time in his breif life, at a total loss of what to say. Unfortunately, the Angel seems similarly afflicted. Dean doesn't like that. It doesn't fit with the picture he has in head of the man who could conquer anything, so he finally breaks the silence with the most important of the million questions raging around his brain.

"Who are you?"

The Angel seems grateful for the line Dean's tossed him.

"My name is Castiel Novak. I'm with the FBI. We're looking into your father's case."

Oh. For some reason, Dean finds that disappointing. He always imagined, should he ever see his Angel again, the man would be looking for  _him_. 

"Do you know who I am?" Dean very much needs this question answered too. To his great relief, the Angel smiles. Just a little. Dean gets the feeling his Angel doesn't smile much, so the fact that Dean wrangled even that from him sets his heart all a flutter. 

"Of course I do, Dean."

"You remember me?"

"How could I forget?"

Dean smiles. So, so happy. 

"I remember you," It's very important the Angel know that. 

The Angel looks surprised. "That's..." he searches for the word. "Good," he finally settles on, "I'm glad. But I'm sorry you remember so much about that night. No one should have to live with that."

Dean feels glad the Angel seems to care so much about him.

"Most of it's a blur," Dean lies, he has nightmares about it daily, "But I'll always remember you. You're my Angel." It's very important the Angel know that as well. Castiel must know, already. But it's very important that Dean tell him anyway. 

"I..." Castiel seems to stagger under the weight of Dean's declaration. Dean likes that. 

"What happened Dean," he says instead, "Are you alright?"

"Why does everyone think I'm not alright?" Dean asks, changing tactics. Castiel may be his Angel, but he's still a fed. In many ways, his father's enemy. 

"I didn't say that," says Castiel, throwing Dean off-guard, "I only asked if you were." 

"Well, I'm fine," Dean eyes him, "We're both fine." 

"You and... Sam?"

"Yes," Dean's very happy his Angel remembers his brother. That's important too. 

* * *

Castiel slides over the closed file sitting next to him and opens it. He can practically feel the judgemental eyes of Karen, Peter and the others drilling holes in the back of his neck, urging him to get on with it already. 

"Looks like you've been traveling," Cas says casually. 

"To hell and back," Dean mutters, rolling his eyes. 

"Is that how you got all those bruises?" Cas asks. 

Dean shifts uncomfortably and doesn't answer. 

When he does, one of his sleeves shifts upward revealing a particularly nasty-looking scar. 

"What happened there?"

Cas boldly reaches over and gently lifts the boy's sleeve, flashing back to the moment he'd grabbed ahold of the terrified four-year old and pulled him and his brother from the burning building.

Dean shrugs.

"It's a tattoo," the boy says dismissively, pulling away. 

"What does it mean?" He asks. As far as Cas knows, tattoos usually represent some sort of personal significance for the barer. 

"Nothing." 

Cas drops his eyes, thinking. 

"What?" 

"Do you know why we're holding your father?"

"Because you're idiots."

"You think we shouldn't be holding him?"

Dean shrugs again. 

"Do you know what he's accused of?"

Dean stares at the table top for a long minute. He nods. 

"Is it true?"

"Even if it was true, why does it matter?" Dean snaps rather suddenly, "It's not like he's hurting anyone."

"Is  _that_ true?"

Dean falls silent again, refusing to make eye contact. 

"Dean," Cas starts. "I'm going to be honest with you. We're not exactly sure what your father's been up to, but looking at this," he gestures to the file, "I think it's a fair guess he _is_ hurting people." 

Dean shuffles his feet.

"Is he hurting you, Dean?"

No answer.

"Is he hurting Sam?"

That did it.

Dean looks up, eyes shiny and wet, "Are you going to stop him?"

* * *

No matter how many times she goes through this, it's always difficult. It always aches in that small spot just to the left of her heart when she learns that the people or person who were meant to love a child most in this world had taken that trust and abused it. Had thrown aside their obligation to love and protect and had chosen instead to hurt and instill fear in their own flesh and blood.  

Karen stares through the mirror at the tears in the young boy's eyes. The boy who had tried so hard to fight it. To stay strong for himself and for his little brother and she feels her heart break just a little. 

And yet he'd chosen to open up. Not to her, but to a man who was... what exactly? She didn't know how these two men knew each other. But if a federal agent with no specialized training could get this kid to admit what she, a social service agent, could not, there must be something very special between them. And Karen intends to find out what. 

* * *

 Cas lets out a slow breath he didn't realize he'd been holding and he feels a cold sickness settle in his gut at Dean's confirmation.  

"Can I see my brother?" Dean asks quietly, "Please. I need to see him."

"Of course," says Cas, without hesitation, "Wait here?"

"Don't go!"

Dean reaches out and grabs Cas's sleeve. Cas feels that same, deep electricity, where their skin brushes. 

"I'm just going to get your brother," Cas says.

"Don't go," Dean pleads.

"Okay." Cas sits back down. 

The door opens and Karen walks in.

"Would you like to go see Sam, Dean?" She asks.

Dean looks from her to Castiel, torn. 

"Agent Novak can come with us, " she promises.

Dean nods. 

* * *

Diana has to admit she's impressed. She's been a detective for a long time. Been blocked by the best of them. But this guy, this guy takes the cake. Two hours in interrogation and the man has said  _nothing_. Not when she threatened him, not when her partner mocked him, not when they brought up his sons. Nothing. He sits there like a brick wall, staring at the mirror, taking full advantage of his fifth amendment rights. He doesn't even ask for a phone call or a lawyer. Just sits there. 

She finally gives up well after two hours, leaving him on his own to stew in his juices. Maybe Pete will have better luck the second time. She'd kicked him out when he'd started yelling at the man. As frustrating as this was, decorum still has to count for something. 

She sits at her desk, pouring through the file once again. There's something strange about it, nagging at her. Something that doesn't quite sit right. She stares at the list of suspicious deaths Winchester is thought to be connected to. All but one are known connections to the Tiger Lily drug ring, and all took place in towns where Winchester is thought to have been damaging graves at the time. But the connection is as flimsy as that. Who is connecting these dots? Where's the motive? The means? Why this man?

True, Winchester has a large number of unsavory associates and yes, there is a very real possibility he is abusing his children, but murder? It doesn't fit. It seems to her Winchester is more of a menace than anything else.

There's a piece missing here. Something big staring them all in the face. But everyone is in such hurry to pinhole John Winchester into a jack-of-all-trades nutcase-shaped slot, she's worried they may never get to the bottom of this ever-stranger puzzle. 

* * *

 Karen, Novak and Dean move together to the neighboring room, a small conference area where Sam and Karen's partner are waiting for them. 

"Dean!" Sam cries, face lighting up at the sight of his brother. He races into the older boy's waiting arms. 

"Hey, Sammy," Dean says, hugging him back, "It's alright. I'm here, buddy." 

The little boy's face is wet with tears and he shakes a little as he turns to Karen.

"Can we go home now?" 

"Not just yet," Karen replies.

They all sit down. 

"Where is home for you, exactly?" She asks, directing the question at both boys. 

She's met with matching shrugs. 

"Where does your father take you when you're not...traveling?"

"Uncle Bobby's" says the younger boy.

"Shhh!" Dean hisses. "Nowhere," he says, "We stay at motels." 

"Who's Uncle Bobby?" Karen asks.

Sam looks at his brother who shakes his head, and just shrugs. 

"Dean?" 

"Nobody," Dean insists. 

Karen sighs. 

It's going to be a long day.

* * *

Pete has just about had it with this guy. Four hours now, and nothing.  _Nothing!_ How exactly is he expected to work with that? How can you hang a guy if he bogarts all the rope?

Pete needs this guy to implicate himself. Without his confession, without his crazed white-supremacist, apocalypse survivalist, paranoid rantings against society, government, Tiger Lily, whatever, Pete won't be able to convince anyone that this is man they're looking for. And he really needs to convince them of that. 

Pete's only hope is the nutjob's children, but truthfully they seem to be just about as stubborn as their father. The little one is a sniveling mess and the older boy seems to be going for the moody-teenager of the year award, with his apparent willingness to cooperate swinging back and forth so violently they're all getting cricks in their necks. 

One minute he's calling them idiots and the next he's confessing to being abused by his father, and the third he's back to shruggy silences. Pete has half a mind to storm in there and knock some sense into the smug little bastard, but he holds himself in check. If he is to have any hope of getting anything useful out of the boys, he knows he's going to have to play it their way for the time being. And Sam's way seems to be Dean's way and Dean's way seems to be utterly dependant on Agent Castiel Novak's being in the room. 

That's fine. They can work with that. So long as the fed doesn't sentimentality get the better of him.

They have a fucking job to do here. 

* * *

Castiel can't stop staring at Dean.  

The boy looks like he's had a rough ten years. His face is gaunt for a fourteen-year old's, like he doesn't often get his three squares. His clothes are baggy and rugged, army-surplus style, just like his father's. He wears a single piece of jewelry: a funny-looking amulet on a long black cord around his neck. The boy's skin is tight over muscles far too defined for someone so young and his movements are careful and measured, like someone twice his age, fully comfortable in their body and all too well aware of how to handle it. The flesh itself is layered in cuts, scrapes, and bruises, not even mentioning the mark on his shoulder that Cas noticed earlier.

It doesn't look like a tattoo; it looks like a burn. A really nasty burn in the perfect shape of a human handprint. Cas recalls the brisk autumn night he'd pulled Dean and his brother from the fire. How his flesh had burned when he'd touched the strange yellow substance, how Dean, in turn, had flinched when Cas touched him in that exact spot. But that was ten years ago. Even the worst of burns would have healed by now. At the very least, it wouldn't look so angry red as it does. Cas wonders if maybe Dean _did_ have a burn and then got the tattoo when it started to fade. Wanting to hold onto the mark for some reason. It's a chilling notion. 

Why would you want to remember something like that? 

"Dean," Cas speaks up and everyone else in the room falls silent. Cas can feel all their eyes on him, the only pair that matter are Dean's.

Those brilliant, green eyes. 

 

* * *

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

"Do you know why your father is digging up those graves?" Asks Castiel.

Dean hesitates. 

"Yes." 

"Can you tell u-," the Angel pauses, rewords, "Can you tell me?" 

Dean feels the instinctive, "no," rise to his lips, the snarky, "you wouldn't understand." 

But this is his Angel talking. If anyone in the world could understand, it would have to be him. 

"The bodies are dangerous," says Dean, "He's making them safe." 

It's such an unexpected answer that everyone just sits and stares at him for a whole minute, each at a total loss. Except for Sammy, who's started playing with his shirt-sleeve, almost bored. 

"The bodies are... dangerous?" It's Karen's partner, the old guy, who speaks up.

"We're not supposed to talk about it," says Sammy. 

Dean fights the urge to shush him again. 

Karen and the old guy look skeptical, confused, but not the Angel. Dean meets Castiel's eyes and finds the man giving Dean his absolute attention, hanging on his every word.

"Dangerous how?" He says. 

"Something to do with the drugs. I don't know really." 

"Dean," says Sammy, sounding worried, "We're not supposed to-"

Dean does shush him this time. He keeps staring at his Angel. 

"It does weird shit," says Dean, talking directly to Castiel, "The drugs they sell. They're messed up."

Castiel nods, understanding flitting across his face. Dean is relieved. He knew his Angel would understand. 

* * *

"Weird shit" hardly covers it. The sheer amount of reports Cas and his bosses have been getting off the street about the drugs Lilith and her gang are putting out should have been enough to turn heads. But the wild impracticality of their content had everyone writing it off as merely hallucinogenic. There have been reports ranging from psychic visions to telekinesis all the way to people claiming the drug made _others_  obedient to their will. The information was insane to the highest degree, so beyond the realm of normal, that no one even considered taking any of it seriously. 

Except Castiel. 

At first, Cas thought the reports of death-touches and premonitions as bonkers as everyone else. But when a group of teenagers came in reporting super strength, it caught his attention. 

The report had been run up the ladder from local police, as they all were. Anna had him documenting everything, no matter how ridiculous, insisting the nature of the delusions and hallucinations the drugs were causing could prove significant down the road. The boys were insisting that, after ingesting the new designer drug known colloquially as "Demon Blood" they'd been cursed with the ability to lift cars with one hand and crush solid metal into dust.

It was the word "cursed" that made Cas pause. They young men weren't claiming to be blessed with superpowers, but rather cursed with a burden that made them terrified to touch the people they loved or even go out in public. The stories were so familiar they'd sent raging chills down Castiel's spine. 

_"It's like everything I touch, breaks."_

Cas knew what that felt like. All too well. 

* * * 

_Cas has never been a big fan of superhero movies. On the rare occasion he does watch TV, he has a preference for children’s cartoons. Something about the simplicity of their plots is a source of comfort in his painfully complicated life and the colorful antics provide a relief from the stress and darkness often present in his job. But there are moments, late at night, when he’s flicking through the channels, unable to sleep, where he’ll stumble across the cartoon or live-action version of a superhero comic, brought to life on the tiny screen._

_They all seem to follow a similar pattern. A seemingly normal individual goes through some sort of trauma and wakes up with miraculous new gifts that elevate them beyond the rest of humanity. They recognize the responsibility that goes with these gifts and decide to dress up in costume and use them for the good of humanity. It’s a nice notion, if a bit silly. And Cas has certainly fantasized, as surely everyone has at one point or another, about possessing such gifts and how much easier his life would be if he could, for example, run faster than light or read people’s minds. How useful such abilities might be to his work. How enjoyable to be able to rise above the mundane and bush with the spectacular._

_But never, of course, has he considered such possibilities beyond the realm of a passing whim. Cas is, and always has been, a realist. Rooted in facts and undeniable truths. He has faith in people because he honestly believes they deserve it. Not because he believes in magic and radioactive spiders._

_And yet, here he stands, with his bed in one hand and the dresser in the other, each a good three feet off the ground, without even breaking a sweat._

_Ever since he pulled those boys out of the fire with one arm, he’s been testing himself. At first, Cas thought it was an adrenaline rush. From what he’s read online, they are fairly common in times of stress or when heroic measures are called for. But that same night when he got home, his front door had gotten stuck...again. And when he tried to pull it open, he’d yanked the damn thing clear off its hinges._

_A week later, he was pursuing a suspect down a back alley, running much faster than his partner and not the least bit winded. He caught up with the guy easily and grabbed ahold of him. He’d planned to tackle him to the ground, but instead had sent the man flying a good twenty feet before he crashed into the brick wall, breaking his nose and cracking two ribs._

_That was when Castiel really started taking notice. He’s had to be careful. Treating everything and everyone like they could break… which they very well might if he doesn’t find a way to keep this… thing, whatever it is, in check. He has to find out the rules._

_Cas puts down the furniture and stares at his own hands for the thousandth time in total shock. What is happening to him? Why is it happening? He has no answers. He doesn’t even know where to start looking._

_He’s pretty sure it started the night of the fire. He can’t know for sure, but at the very least he can’t recall anything like this happening to him before that night. But where does that get him? Dozens of people were present that night and as far as his very awkward prodding has gotten him, no else noticed anything strange outside the obvious._

_No one can tell how the fire was started and they still have no leads on the mysterious individual who had invaded the family’s home. There were even those who doubted such an individual even existed and that either John, himself, had started the fire as a  cover for killing his wife, or the man had simply gone mad upon seeing her burn to death. One overzealous attorney even planned to prosecute John on suspicion of murder, but the man and his sons had all mysteriously disappeared just nights after the incident._

_On top of that, Castiel informed his bosses about the odd yellow liquid he’d spotted when pulling the boys from danger. But no one performing the investigation after the fact could find any trace of any unusual substances in the house._

_All that was weird, but still offered him nothing in way of explanation for his inexplicable new strength. In fact, it all seemed quite stubbornly designed to do just opposite, screaming, “Move along! Nothing to see here!”_

_It left Cas stumped. His right hand, the one he’d first stuck in the strange goo and then grabbed the little boy’s arm with, was burned badly, but that could just as easily have been caused by the burning metal of the doorknob he’d touched only moments before. Which leaves him with nothing. Nothing at all except maybe something the little boy had seen or experienced that could shed some light on his bizarre new situation. But the odds of seeing him again are even more ridiculous than the odds of getting superpowers from a house fire to begin with. Coincidences like that don’t happen in real life. Hell, it even pisses him off when they happen in the movies. Life is never supposed to be that neat._

* * * 

"Why is it your dad's job to make the bodies safe?" Karen is asking, when Cas drifts back to the meeting at hand. 

"Well, no one else is going to do it," says Dean with a fire in his eyes. He turns to Castiel, "Are you?" 

* * *

The next day Dean asks for his phone back.

Karen feels so guilty about being forced to leave him and his brother in the sheriff's station overnight she pulls some strings and gets it for him. But not before the lead detectives and Agents Novak and Milton have gone through it, and Sam's, extensively. 

There's a peculiar text in the older boy's inbox from a blocked number:

_~Nearby Are Yellow Eyes~_

No one knows what to make of it, so Karen resolves to ask Dean about it once she gives the phone back to him. (She has to be very firm on that point.)

The first thing Dean does when she hands it to him is check his inbox. No new messages, Karen knows. He checks his texts, and his face goes pale. 

"What is it?" She asks, going for concerned but afraid she comes off as more curious than anything else. 

"Nothing." 

Karen's not surprised. She feels silly for expecting a different answer. 

"Is everything alright?" 

Sammy tugs on his older brother's sleeve but Dean just shakes his head, putting the phone away in his pocket. 

"Everything's fine," he promises. He's lying. 

She knows he's lying but there's nothing she can do about it. The others are tracing the number, she knows, maybe they can give her some answers. 

* * *

Everything is happening fast. Nine different states are competing over the extradition of John Winchester, Karen Giles is pushing to put his sons into proper care, and the journal they've discovered among John Winchester's effects is sending them off in twenty different directions, each more bizarre than the last. 

If there were any remaining doubt about John Winchester's psychological state, this serial-killer's type manifest would have silenced them. Most of it is an incomprehensible jumble of demonic-looking symbols and random collections of letters and numbers. But the stuff they can make out is even more disturbing. 

Diana flips through the pages, eyebrows growing higher with every leaf. In between the drawings and margin scrawls are pages and pages of crazed rantings about psychics and superhumans. There are long lists of meticulously organized numbers and names and diary-like entries about "putting down" monsters. It so stuffed with possible leads, Diana hardly knows where to start. How much of this true? How much is simply the delusional rantings of a sick man? It's like she hit the evidence-jackpot only peek in and discover the pot itself is chock-full of counterfeit needles, a pile worse than any haystack could have ever been. How will they ever sort out the truth from this mess?

Pete, on the hand, seems thrilled by the journal and everything in it. According to him, it confirms everything he's been saying since the beginning: John Winchester is a nutjob and all the suspicious death that seems to follow him around will fall directly on his head. 

Diana's not so sure. But she has nothing to offer in place of his theory and, if Pete's gut says Winchester is the man they're looking for, who is she to argue? 

* * *

Cas is sifting through files on the Demon Blood's effects, old and new, when the news comes in. 

He's at home, on his computer, scrolling through the incident reports, looking at them with a brand new eye. When the account about super-strength had caught his attention, he'd started to wonder at the credibility of the other...effects. But now, knowing he's not the only one who's taken notice, even if Winchester _is_ a madman, he's got an entirely new perspective to work with. 

 _Dangerous_ , Dean had called them. And not just the users themselves, but their very bodies, even dead, seemed to carry some horrible risk in the eyes of the boy's father. 

John Winchester looks at this list, or whatever variation he has at his disposal, and sees very real, very prominent threats. Dangerous individuals with an even more dangerous substance in their veins and in their pockets, spreading their afflictions like a disease. He sees monsters,  _demons,_ with infected blood,poisoning the masses with an addition to something no one could possibly understand. An epidemic.

And he's on a one-man mission to contain it. 

Cas closes his eyes. Getting so deep into the mind of someone like John Winchester is making his head ache. It frightens him a little to realize how deep down this rabbit hole one might fall if they weren't careful. If they really, truly believed in it. 

Those poor boys. 

What twisted scenarios must their father be filling their heads with? What crazed, paralyzing fears must they have when they go to sleep at night? When they step out into this world of theirs, crawling with monsters of the very worst sort. They must be terrified. 

The thing is, Cas isn't entirely certain they don't have a right to be. He knows for sure at least one of the reported effects is not only possible but has  _happened_. And as for the rest of them...something about it feels...true. Not everything. Certainly not to the letter. But the idea behind the panic... something about it seems frightening plausible to him. The tingling beneath his skin refuses to die when he looks at the list, it pushes at him, nudging his conscious mind, whispering  _look harder. Look deeper._

Cas's phone buzzes on the table beside him.

He opens his tired eyes and stares at the screen, not comprehending what he's seeing. He shakes his head to clear the fuzzniess of exhaustion and looks again. It's from Anna. 

_~Winchester escaped. Sheriff's station. Now.~_

* * *

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Pete is growing a little desperate. 

Okay, he passed "desperate" two hours ago. Now he's full on frantic. 

The social worker has the boys lined up to go into care the following day. Without them, his case against John Winchester falls apart. And without John Winchester to take the blame, there's a scaringly good chance people will start looking in other places for an explanation. The right places. 

Pete can't let that happen. 

Karen needs to be taken care of. But before he can do that, he needs a fall-guy. So John Winchester must escape. 

Pete takes it upon himself to transfer John Winchester to a neighboring state that's demanding extradition. He pulls him out of his cell in the middle of the night and stuffs him in the back of the truck. Halfway there, Winchester will "escape." 

And with two bullets in the back of his head, buried six feet underground in the middle of nowhere, he'll pull off the greatest disappearing act the world has ever seen. Reemerging just long enough to murder Karen Giles, before vanishing into thin air. Forever.  

With his DNA at Karen's murder scene, no one will ever again question the guilt of John Winchester. He is the man they've all been looking for. 

* * *

 Castiel arrives at the sheriff's station a little after one am and meets up with Anna and the woman, Detective Ballard. Pete Sheridan is nowhere to be seen.  

"I don't know," says the detective, "I haven't heard from him all night. He won't answer my calls."

"Do you think he's alright?" Cas asks.

"Priorities," Anna reminds them, "We've got a maniac on the loose." 

"Right," says Ballard. They put out the APB and then speak to one of the night officers, the last person to see John. He tells them he checked in on Winchester at a quarter to ten, when he came back half an hour later, the man was gone. The cell door appears undamaged, so they check the security tapes. 

The tape starts out normal enough. John Winchester sitting in his cell, staring at the wall, half-asleep. The officer comes through, making rounds, then leaves. Just like he said. 

Then it gets weird. 

Sheridan, of all people, enters the frame. The tape has no audio, but the two exchange a few words, then Sheridan opens the cell door and leads Winchester out in cuffs.

They all stand in total shock for a few minutes, staring at the loop. 

"I've gotta call Pete," says Ballard.

"Yeah, you do that," says Anna, "While I get a warrant for his arrest."

"Hold on," says Ballard, "Don't you think that's a little hasty? We have no idea what happened. There could be a perfectly reasonable explanation." 

"Like what, exactly?"

"I don't know, " Ballard admits, "But he's my partner. He deserves the benefit of the doubt."

Castiel is not sure what to make of what he saw, but he has a strong feeling, the special kind, it's not at all what it looks like. There's something else going on here, something bigger.

"Fine," Anna relents, shooting Ballard an evil eye, "We'll hold off until we find Winchester. But this is on you."

Ballard swallows hard and nods. 

"Guys!" An officer sticks his head into the security room, "You're gunna wanna hear this."

* * *

Pete wakes up dead.

Well, not _dead_  dead. But it sure as hell feels that way.  

His head is pounding and it feels like he's swallowed a mouthful of dirt in addition to the one he's currently coughing and spitting out. 

He's lying half-buried in the mud, shackled, wrists and ankles, with his own cuffs, with half a dozen body parts throbbing like the bass speakers at a rave. His arms, his head, his chest. That John Winchester packs a punch. And it bothers him more than a little to realize that he really  _could_ have woken up dead dead if such a notion had tickled Winchester's fancy. He'd been completely at the man's mercy. For some reason, god only knows, the criminal has chosen to spare him. Something about which Pete isn't sure whether to feel grateful or irritated. Maybe John hadn't killed him because he felt he didn't need to. Maybe he didn't see Pete as any kind of threat at all. And if that's not a blow to his ego, he doesn't know what would be. 

All the pain he's in can't throw a stick at the shame he feels, or at the dread of the even greater shame coming his way when someone finally does find him here. 

Pete rolls over onto his back, tries to sit up, but his cuffed arms throw off his balance and he winds up toppling back onto his side. He rolls again and pulls his legs under him, lifting up onto his knees instead. 

It's not a complete loss, really. The fact that Winchester actually  _did_ escape mid-transit still plays well into his plan. He can still murder Giles and blame it on John. Can still recapture the criminal, eventually. Can still get back everything he's lost. 

Except his pride. 

* * *

When the call comes in reporting Pete's situation--some trucker found him beaten on the side of the road alongside an empty police transport vehicle--Diana can't help but feel a little relieved. She scolds herself for it, for having allowed herself to believe even for a moment that Pete might be guilty. And for feeling relief when what she should be feeling is worry and anger on behalf of her partner. 

The next day Pete is still too shaken to do much in the way of dealing with the fallout, so it falls to Diana and the social worker, Karen, to deliver the news. 

The boys do not take the announcement of their father's escape very well at all.

The little one doesn't seem to understand. He keeps asking where he went and when he'll be coming back. At Diana and Karen's "We don't knows," the boy just gets more and more upset until he basically sobbing, stamping his feet, and demanding to see him. 

The older boy goes quiet at the news. His face darkens and he just sits there, stewing in betrayal and anger, and whatever else he must be feeling at a time like this. 

Diana feels horrible about it. Even more horrible than she already did for dropping the ball on the man. 

These poor boys. What else can life throw at them? 

Maybe this could be a positive thing, though, for them. At least in the long run. Perhaps now they will realize what kind of man their father truly is. Perhaps it will make the separation easier if they think their father doesn't want them. As miserable as that might seem. 

The younger boy, Sam, begs to see his father and Karen kneels down to comfort him.

"You're wrong!" Sam insists, "He'll come back for us. He always comes back."

"Shut up, Sammy!" Dean snaps suddenly, "Just shut up. He's gone. Don't you get that? He left us."

"No! He wouldn't"

"He did!"

Diana watches the scene and feels something stir in her gut besides pity and general discomfort at being privy to such a private moment. Something not quite right.

It all looks so...normal. These boys are behaving exactly like any other children of any other disappeared parent might be expected to. Not like the sons of a paranoid madman and possible murderer who believed in superpowers and the occult. Not like children who are used to having their father abandon them to go off and do god knows what. Not like children who've lived their entire lives on the run.

It raises questions in Diana's mind. Questions about the true nature of John's beliefs and parenting. Questions about the real reason behind his escape.  

* * *

The day after John escapes, Castiel gets a call. The man's children have gone silent again and Detective Ballard has reason to believe they may know more about their father's intents and whereabouts than they are letting on. Since Cas was able to get Dean to open up before, she is hoping he might come talk to him again. 

Cas can't pretend a part of him isn't a little eager for it. He's feels awful, of course, about John's escape, about how Dean and his brother must be feeling in the wake of it, about being used to manipulate Dean into possibly turning on his father. But there's a small piece of him that's anxious to see Dean again. And not only to find out what he knows about John, but perhaps to talk to him more about...other things. Like the night of the fire and what he remembers. 

If he remembers what Cas can do. 

Or why. 

Soon he's back in interrogation, with just Dean this time, as Sammy is still far too upset to talk to anyone. 

"Are you okay," Cas opens with. He's pretty sure he can guess the answer, but it seems only polite to ask. 

"I'm just awesome," says Dean, staring hard at the tabletop. He suddenly peers up at Cas from beneath his long eyelashes and Cas notices for the first time the light smattering of freckles across the boy's cheeks.

"Why are you here?"

"I'm investigating your father's escape."

"You're here because you think I know something. They think you can get me to talk."

Well, Dean's certainly hit the nail on the head. 

"Yes," Cas says, deciding as long as he's emotionally manipulating a little boy, he at least owes him the basic respect of honesty. 

Dean huffs a little laugh, "Well, I don't know anything." 

Cas stares at the young man for a long time, watching his small movements, waiting for the tingling in his skull that buzzes into existence whenever something isn't right. It doesn't come. 

"I believe you."

Dean frowns, surprised, "You do?" 

Cas nods. "Why would you lie?"

Dean looks back at the table and shrugs, "I dunno. To protect him or something."

"I get the feeling you're not a protective mood at the moment. Not of him, at any rate."

Dean quiet for a long minute.

"I hate him," he mutters eventually, so quiet Cas has to lean in to hear it. 

"Then help us catch him."

"I thought you said I didn't know anything." 

"I'm guessing he doesn't' tell you much about anything he does." 

Dean shakes his head.

"But that doesn't mean you don't know things that could help us. You might know more than you think you do."

"Like what?" Asks Dean, brightening at the idea. 

They spend the next thirty minutes talking about everything Cas can think of to narrow down the search for John Winchester. He asks Dean about favorite places, driving habits, allies, preferred aliases, fears, and indulgences. He asks where they've traveling in the past three months. He asks about anything at all his dad might have said to him to indicate where he was planning on going next. 

Dean answers as best he can, only resorting to quiet shrugs when Cas broaches the subject of the man's attitude toward his sons. Dean seems reluctant to speak about the abuse, which, as far as Cas understands, is not unusual. Cas has no desire to make Dean any more uncomfortable than he already is, so he takes the boy's cues and steers away from the issue whenever he gets too close. There are other people whose job it is to deal with that particular can. Dean is safe for now. Cas's job is to find John. 

"Thank you, Dean," Cas says sincerely, when they've finished.

"You really think you'll catch him?" The boy sounds doubtful.

Cas doesn't want to make a promise he's not sure can keep. Not to Dean.

"We're sure as hell going to try."

"You'll catch him," says Dean suddenly, "You can do anything." 

Castiel stares at him, startled and more than a little intrigued. He feels excited butterflies stirring in his gut at what Dean may be implying. How much does he remember about their first meeting? 

"Why do you say that?" He asks.

The kid stares right back at him, a fierce confidence in his eyes. A trust so intense, like he's daring Castiel to even try to let him down, like he knows Cas better than he knows himself.

"Well can't you?"

 

* * *

Apparently, trying to hold onto a Winchester is like trying to hold onto the rain. 

The next day, the day the boys are scheduled to be moved to a nearby group home-- the date was postponed after John's escape, Karen's partner shows up alone to escort the Winchesters.

And finds them gone.

Pete is furious. Can nothing go his way? Even with Giles out of the way, every one of the Winchesters has managed to slip through his tightly-gripping fingers. And now he has nothing. People are starting to question why Pete took it upon himself to extradite John, when their own investigation was still so far from over. He'd actually made contact with the Wisconsin police forces to arrange John's extradition but it's only a matter of days before someone realizes that state's particular hunger for Winchester was no more urgent than any other's. 

And on the very top of this ever-growing pile of shit, he now has to worry about the fallout from the now-obsolete killing of Karen Giles. Karen was not like John. She won't just disappear. He has maybe a day at most before she's discovered missing and then... and then. And then he doesn't know. He'd taken special care in disposing of her body, it's unlikely to be found in the course of the investigation but still. Any hope he'd had of pinning the murder on John had shriveled in light of his children's vanishing act.

He has to find those kids. And he has to find them before John is recaptured.

He needs to get them to flip on their father. He needs people to believe John Winchester is capable of having committed all those murders. He needs people to believe he was capable of killing Karen. He needs to win and twist the hearts of those boys. And to do that he needs someone on the inside.

He needs to win and twist the heart of Castiel Novak.

Failing that, if Novak refuses to cooperate, then things might just get a whole lot messier than they already are. 

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

Dean and Sam don’t stray very far. How can they with no car and no adult? They sneak out of the police station and walk just a few miles until they find the right motel. A run-down, barely open, pay-by-the-hour kind of place. Perfect for their needs.

Dean flashes a substantial amount of cash at the bored, teenage desk clerk and he waves them in barely looking them in the face, let alone questioning their ages.

Once inside, the first thing Dean does, after getting Sammy settled, is shower.

Nearly three days they were stuck in that tiny little sheriff’s station, sleeping on old, creaky cots with stiff mattresses, brushing their teeth in the men’s room sinks and not a shower in sight. They couldn’t even change their clothes since their duffels had been seized as evidence along with everything else in the Impala.  

After that, even the cramped, too-hot then too-cold then too-hot again shower in the skeezy motel room bathroom feels like heaven.

Dean stands in the tiny stall, feeling the burning waters scorch his exposed skin, blazing down his face, his arms, his chest. He loves the heat. And he hates it. It feels like home in the very worst way.

He breathes deep, inhales the fiery steam, feels the beads of sweat slide down his forehead, mingling with the water droplets gently pelting his face, running into his eyes.

The water temperature changes again to a cooling stream, shaking Dean from his reprieve.

He washes up, rinses off and steps into the tiny cubicle-like washroom. He wipes the fog from the mirror and takes a brief moment to examine his own reflection.

His dark hair hangs in damp strings on his forehead, contrasting the paleness of his skin except where his cheeks are flushed from the heat. His eyes are bright green but the circles underneath them have grown darker every day with worry and lack of sleep.

His eyes drop to the red mark on his bare shoulder. The “tattoo.” Part of him wonders if he should have told Castiel the truth. But surely there are limits to what even he could understand. Hell, Dean’s the one wearing the mark and even he hardly understands it.

Dean exits the bathroom and gets dressed while Sammy stares at some mindless show on the motel’s ancient television. It’s some cartoon about superheroes. Dean’s never cared much for cartoons. He finds all the violence and lewd humor to be off-putting. He has enough of that in his real life.

Dean sits down with Sam and goes over, for what feels like the thousandth time, all the details of the coming few days. Sam rolls his eyes through most of it with the occasional, “I _know_ , Dean!”

Finally, when Dean’s satisfied Sammy really does know, he lets it go and settles in next to his little brother, staring at the endless chases and birdie-inducing sledgehammers that never seem to leave any scars.

* * *

_Nearby Are Yellow Eyes_

Diana stares at the text for the umpteenth time and shakes her head. They've traced the number to a burner phone purchased six weeks ago, out of state. A dead-end. For them, at least. The FBI may have more luck. But for now they're stuck with nothing except the headaches induced by the obscure yet strangely ominous phrasing of the text itself. Diana's been studying the wording, but with only four to work with she doesn't have much to go on.

Still, it's four more than _nothing_ which is all they had before. 

Diana researches all the possible connotations of "Yellow Eyes" in street culture, mythology, legal jargon, and everything else she can think of but comes up with nothing. Whatever "Yellow Eyes" is it's a secret known only to the the Winchesters and their mysterious correspondent. 

That leaves her with "Nearby." A very worrying term when taken in context. Diana shudders when she realizes the text reads very much like a warning. But a warning about what? And who would be warning the teenage son of a wanted (possible) murderer? What did he have to fear? 

Diana half considers just sending out every resource at her disposal and then some. Simply searching "nearby" as thoroughly as humanly possible for anything at all that could constitute "Yellow Eyes." But, of course, that's ridiculous. Grasping at straws with strangers' fingers. Especially, when she's not even certain there's a needle to be found among them. 

So, instead, she calls Agent Milton and delivers the news of their miserable incompetence in regards to tracing the message's origin. And waits. 

* * *

Coming to work is starting to feel like stepping onto the set of an afternoon melodrama. Everyday some new disaster or twist seems to strike and shatter the tenuous status quo that was so painstakingly established the day before. And today is proving to be no exception.

Castiel arrives at the office to the news of the young Winchesters' disappearance. Apparently, they evaporated through the sheriff station's walls even more fluidly than their father, leaving no clues as to their current whereabouts. The security footages shows the boys leaving the station around midnight and heading west. But the boys have a six hour head start and "west" is a rather large area to canvas.  

With their suspect and his children in the wind, the FBI is more or less back to square one on the Winchester front. Whatever insights John (or even his kids) might have provided into the Tiger Lily cartel and its secrets has dissipated like so much smoke into the open air just as he and they have. The manhunt is on but no one is particularly optimistic, the Winchesters having proved more like smoke themselves than corporeal things to be hunted and locked up. 

Nevertheless Cas feels something tug close to his heart when he hears that Dean has again slipped into the ether, the boy with the amazing green eyes tumbling off his radar once more. He feels a sort of choking emptiness at the realization he will likely never get the chance to see Dean again, let alone talk to him about all the questions that had been burning the tip of his tongue the entire time they were together, but had never quite risen to the surface. 

Cas finds himself struggling under a surprisingly strong sense of unease, like he'd stumbled across a long-lost piece of himself, something he hadn't even known he was missing, only to turn his back on it for two seconds and have it disappear once again. Almost as if it was never there to begin with. 

It's a strange, almost frightening emotion, that he can feel so attached to a boy he scarcely knows. He marvels at how such a profound bond could have been be formed in the space of just a few days...

Or ten years.

Depending on how you looked at it. 

He feels weighted down as he trudges to his desk and collapses unceremoniously into his chair. The biggest question weighing on his mind, aside from  _where_ the Winchester boys have gone, is  _why_. Why did they feel the need to split in the first place? True, the boys were set to be placed into care, but Cas would have figured that to be a reason to  _stay_. Lord only knows the last time those boys had a decent place to sleep or a solid meal and Karen had promised the boys would be kept together. The obvious answer, the one most folks are running with, is, of course, that the boys had escaped to go join their father and get back to doing...whatever it is John does. 

But something about that doesn't fit in Cas's mind. He can't explain it, but he knows there is more to it than that. Those boys are terrified of their father on some level. Cas could see it carved into their expressions and their marred flesh. They had every reason to want to be as far away from the man as possible. Running back into his arms, when they'd finally landed themselves in a position to escape him, doesn't make sense.

But, then again, Cas muses, maybe it doesn't have to. Many abuse victims return to their abuser again and again, against all reason, either believing they'll change or because they simply don't know how to exist without them. He is their father, even after everything that he's done. And what child could truly feel whole without their only parent? Especially at such young ages. 

The local PD hit a dead end tracing the strange text to Dean's phone, so Anna sent word to the FBI office in Kansas where the phone had been purchased. They are still waiting on the results of the investigation. On top of everything else, the wait is especially frustrating to Castiel who feels strongly that, given enough time, there was a very good chance Dean would have just told him what it meant, if not who sent it. 

He stares broodingly at his computer screen, watching the generic screensaver's logo bounce lazily from one corner to the next in a completely futile motion. Spinning its wheels in a long, laborious trek to nowhere.

A hand slams down on his desk.

Cas jumps a little and glances up to see a slick, forced-looking grin staring back at him.

"Hello, Agent," Detective Sheridan says, "Can we talk?"

* * *

Dean gets a text.

He doesn't recognize the number, but based on its content it could only be from one person.  

_~Meet me yesterday. Yellow.~_

It's code. A rather simple one, admittedly, but one that's served their family well in many a sticky situation. 

Dean packs up himself and Sammy and slips them out of the motel without bothering to check out. The feds'll track them to this place eventually and Dean would rather they not know the exact time he and Sammy decided to split. 

They walk a few miles in the wrong direction, far enough that nobody is really bothering to look for them, and slip into an arcade. Possibly the one place in the world that two kids on their own won't be seen as out of the ordinary. They have about five hours to kill before the meet-time. And since they had to leave the motel anyway, Dean would just as soon spend that time someplace fun. 

Fun is more than a rarity for him and his brother. It's a freak occurrence. A forbidden fruit, once in a blue-moon kind of commodity that their dad has no interest in trading in. Dean's few "fun" memories are precious and small. Invaluable jewels kept a dear, dark secret, held tightly to his chest. A clandestine fireworks display, tossing a baseball on a fall afternoon, a special Christmas spent alone with Sam where he received his most precious possession that has yet to leave its home near his heart. Nearly all of them take place at Uncle Bobby's or Pastor Jim's. All of them involve Sammy. None of them involve his dad. 

And here, in the midst of the very worst times, and on the brink of something major, something life-changing, Dean is squeezing out one more perfect moment with Sammy.

He's going to need it.  

* * *

Pete is on a mission. 

He's got to find those boys but, apart from a shitty lead about a text to the older boy's phone, they've got jack-squat. He couldn't be more pissed if he were a urinal. When he finds those kids he's going to wring their little necks for putting him through this. 

First, their father gets the drop on him and leaves him hog-tied and bleeding on the side of the road, and now his two _children_ have given the PD the slip, effectively making them all look like a bunch of incompetent idiots. Which might not be that far off, considering. 

But he does have one more Hail Mary up his sleeve; something everyone else seems to have their heads way too far up their asses to consider. Agent Novak.  

Pete watched in a kind of morbid fascination as Agent Castiel Novak and the young Dean Winchester spoke in interrogation. Saw the connection that formed, a sort of deep, barely repressed kind of kinship between them that had no business being there. If there is any chance in hell that anyone at all knows where Dean and his brother have taken off to, Pete'd bet his life it's the young fed (which is lucky since, thanks to recent developments, that's more or less what he's doing.)

But apparently no one else has the balls to call Novak out on it. 

It's just as well. If you want something done right...

"Coffee?" Pete offers sweetly through his teeth. 

Novak shakes his head.

"No? Well, I'm going to have some," he flags the waitress and she takes his order.

He tries to ignore the way Novak's eyes follow him, glued to his every move, like he's some sort of intricate puzzle the man's been tasked to figure out. It's unnerving. But Pete doesn't lose his nerve. Not ever. 

"Sure you don't want anything?" he asks, forcing another smile. 

"What do you want?" Novak asks bluntly. 

Pete puts on his most innocent face. "Just wanted to chat," he says lightly, "Maybe pick your brain about the case."

"Why?"

Novak is still staring at him. Pete fights the urge to squirm. He refuses to be intimidated by this soft-hearted fool. 

"Well, we're a little light on leads, don't you agree?" 

"Yes," says Novak, still looking baffled.

"So, I'd say it's time to go fishing," Pete says cheerily, not intimating he intends Novak to be the bait, "And what better place to start than those kids' last conversation before they pulled a Houdini?"

"The transcript of their interviews is all on record," Novak answers stiffly. 

Pere shrugs easily. "Yeah," he drawls, "but if the answer was in the transcripts we'd've found 'em by now. Records can't tell you everything. In my opinion they leave out all the important parts. The  _human_ element." 

For the first time since they've sat down, Novak looks intrigued. 

"You think the Winchester children might have hinted where they were going?"

"Naturally," Pete says, thrilled to have finally struck a chord with the unresponsive fed, "They're kids, right? Kids are hardly the most dependable liars." He goes on to throw out a few made-up theories and leading questions for a few minutes before Pete realizes Novak isn't even listening. His eyes are unfocused, staring off to some distant point over Pete's shoulder, frown lines deeply etched into his forehead. 

"Agent?"

"I'm sorry, " says Novak, snapping back to reality, "I have to go."

"What?"

The man tosses a few bills on the table and stands, "Thank you for...your invitation."

"Wait," Pete tries, but Novak's already gone. Disappeared. Like every other fucking hope Pete had had of keeping this whole thing underwraps.

Pete knows if he can't get Novak to share whatever brilliant epiphany he had unwittingly helped him stumble upon just now, he'll have no choice but to run this up the ladder. 

Alistair is gunna be _pissed_. 

* * *

 


	6. Chapter 6

_"Kids are hardly the most dependable liars."_

* * *

Castiel has rolled his last conversation with the young Winchesters around his tired brain a thousand times since it happened, most often after the boys disappeared, but never so painstakingly as after Sheridan had suggested the boys might have slipped up and hinted at (or slipped _in_ ) some clue toward their current whereabouts. It had, ironically, taken going through the very transcripts Cas himself had so dryly suggested Sheridan refer back to in order to discover the hidden gem Cas now somehow knows will be there.

* * *  

_"Where does your father take you when you're not...traveling?"_

_"Uncle Bobby's."_

* * *

Uncle Bobby. A name. A name dropped so casually it might very well have been an accident. Or not. Dean had certainly taken his time in shushing his little brother, not bothering to silence him until after the name was already mentioned.

Not likely a real uncle, that is, not John's brother. John Winchester is an only child, Cas knows. As was Mary. A family friend then. Close. Someone Dean thought was worth protecting, worth steering the social worker away from. Someone John trusts enough to leave his children behind with.

Cas logs onto the FBI databases and searches through John's military records, known associates, and everything else he can think of. He even searches the name "Robert" in connection with Mary Winchester's maiden name and comes up with nothing.

For a while, Cas sits, stumped. Then another idea strikes him. Something else Dean said about favorite cities and towns his dad liked to frequent. Cas wracks his brain for the most specific ones, places he's never heard of before. He has no practical reason for skipping over the other ones, but this is one of the very few times the supernatural-like tingling in his skull and the more down-to-earth, experience-hardened feeling in his gut have decided to sync up, so he rolls with it. He runs a quick search and narrows it down to three small towns with populations under 10,000. He finds "Robert Singer"s in two of them. The first Robert is a child. The second lives in a tiny hamlet just outside the slightly larger small town of Sioux Falls South Dakota.

He makes a call.

 

* * *

A call comes in. The FBI has finally heard back from their office in Topeka, Kansas. They've managed to track down the corner store where Dean's mysterious friend's burner was purchased. A quick roll through the security footage got the office a face. Another day matched that face with a name.

James Murphy.

Diana scoops up the name like so much gold and runs with it.

The FBI has already done most of the legwork. The man is a Pastor from Blue Earth, Minnesota. Like John, he served in the Marines back in the mid-seventies. There are no express connections to suggested they served together but, considering their ridiculous lack of leads, Diana is willing to let that by.

Agent Milton is already taking steps to get the Pastor in for questioning out west. Now it's only a matter of time.

When Diana shares the news with Pete, she's confused by his reaction.

"Shit," he grumbles, seemingly before he can stop himself because he quickly schools his expression.

"This is good news," Diana insists, "Maybe he knows something."

"I don't know," says Pete, refusing to meet her gaze, "Seems like a long shot."

"I don't know if you've noticed," she reminds him, "But we're not exactly swimming in leads, here. This could be our chance."

Pete grinds his teeth so intensely she can practically hear it, as he stares fixedly at the file on his desk.

"Shit," he mutters again, so quietly, she's not a hundred percent sure she didn't imagine it.

* * *

Dean checks his phone again and is more than a little worried to see his inbox empty. No missed calls. Not counting the messages from Castiel and the cops, asking him to come back. 

Dean has to admit it pleases him just a little that his Angel is so worried about him.

Sammy is across the arcade, hustling some older kids out of their tickets at skeeball. Little rascal. Dean whistles between his teeth, Sam looks up and Dean tilts his head toward the door.

"Sup?" Sammy asks, thumbing through his newly-won tickets.

"Time to go," says Dean.

"Already?"

"Sammy," says Dean seriously, and his little brother looks up at his tone, handfuls of brightly colored paper forgotten.

The kid nods but adds, "It's early."

"I know."

"What happened?"

"Nothing," says Dean, "That's the problem."

Sammy's eyes widen. "Let's go."

They go.

* * *

 Years ago Castiel pulled two scared little boys from a house fire and woke up the next morning with the ability to bench-press well over two-hundred pounds with one hand.

The weeks that followed were easily the most nerve wracking and stress filled of his young life. Whether it was crushing the ribs of a suspect, ripping the shower-head out of the wall, or leaving a handprint-shaped dent in his desk after a frustrated slam, every day the strength seemed to find some fresh, creative way to break something new and scare the living shit out of him in the process.

He lived in fear of himself, of the immense power vibrating beneath his skin, terrified to exist inside his own alien body. He felt like a monster at times, other times like a superhero, but mostly he just felt different.

Isolated.

Alone.

Burdened with a strangeness and a secret no one could possibly understand.

It changed him. His movements grew stiff, measured, hands shoved so deep in his pockets like he was hoping they'd just disappear. He became closed off, tight-lipped and even more enigmatic than he already was. His friends felt the shift and drifted away in kind, forcing him to reinvent himself in more ways than one.

He applied to the FBI a month following the rib-breaking incident. He had to get away.

It was an impossible, trying, and lonely time that had Cas constantly looking over his shoulder.

But none of that can in any way compare to the party Cas's nerves are throwing as he listens to the rhythmic tones thrumming through the other end of the phone line. All because of who might answer. And what he might know.

The ringing cuts off with a sharp click.

"Yeah?"

The voice that answers the phone is gruff, impatient.

"Bobby Singer?"

"Who wants to know?"

Cas swallows hard.

"This is Castiel Novak. I'm with the FBI."

"Yeah? Whaddaya want?"

Cas isn't sure if the voice sounds amused or annoyed.

"I have a few questions about a family you may know. The Winchesters."

There's a long, startled pause on the other end.

"The hell you know about the Winchesters?" All traces of amusement, real or imagined, have vanished. Cas takes a deep breath.

"Are you aware John Winchester has been arrested?"

There's another long pause, tenser this time.

Then finally, "Kids, okay?"

Cas hesitates, fingers tightening on the edge of his desk before he catches himself. He doesn't need another questionable crater. How much should he share?

"Assuming they can take care of themselves," Cas settles on.

"They rabbited on you, huh?"

"Yes."

"I'm sorry," Bobby says, "I can't help you."

"I need to find them," says Cas quickly, before the man can hang up.

"How did you get this number?"

"Did you miss the part where I work for the FBI?"

There's a grudging respect type grunt on the other end.

"Please," Cas tries again, "I need to make sure h- they're okay."

"Oh, don't worry about them," Bobby concedes, "They know the drill."

"This has happened before?"

"Listen, Fed. I don't know who you are or why you'd think I'd believe you want those little boys for any reason other than getting at John, but you're barking up the wrong tree."

Cas feels himself cave.

"I need to find Dean."

There's another hesitation on the line.

"Why Dean?"

"I...I think he wants me to find him. Something he said." Singer doesn't deny the possibility, so Cas keeps going. "I'm worried, Mr. Singer," he persists, "If you truly care about those boys, you should be too. There's something bigger going on here."

It's quiet for a minute.

"You care about him." It's not a question, but Cas answers it anyway.

"Yes."

"Why?"

Cas dodges the question.

"If you have as much faith in those boys as you seem to, you should know leading me to them won't necessarily mean leading me to John. I'd like to bring him in, but I'll settle for keeping Dean and his brother out of trouble."

" _Why_?" Singer repeats.

"I...I feel a sense of personal responsibility for...for them."

"Personal? What the hell you talking about fed?"

Cas sighs, here it goes.

"I was there. The night of the fire," he admits, "I was the one who got them out."

* * *

Dean has never really thought much about God. He supposes it's naive to dismiss the possibility flat-out, but it's near impossible for him imagine any kind of benevolent force would allow the kind of evil he witnesses on a daily basis to go on unpunished. So, for the most part, he's pushed the idea to the back of his mind. 

One thing Dean knows: if God does exist, he's a total dick. 

When Dean was four, it was a different story. His mother had been very spiritual, if not formally religious. She raised him to believe in love and goodness and angels. And when Hell came knocking on their quiet, suburban door, and a savior had burst through the flames against all odds, raising Dean and his brother out, out from the fire and death with one hand... Dean had just assumed something holy and powerful and  _good_  was at work. And that image has stuck with him. 

Dean's older now. He's not so certain he believes in Angels of the Lord of the Dicks. But he does believe in Castiel.

Castiel is and always will be his Angel, no matter where God has wandered off too. 

These thoughts, usually miles from Dean's mind, have come bubbling to the surface in light of his present location. 

Dean's and Sam's shadows have rarely darkened the doorways of churches, only once or twice while hiding out or researching a case. But now they are here for a different reason. A far more important one. 

The place smells like incense and dark pews line the large open space leading up to the alter, all of it dotted in multicolored lights from the tall stained-glass windows. 

It's simple, functional. Not overly ornate and it really doesn't look like much from the outside. But inside...the inside holds more horrors and darkness than anyone with a soul could stomach to imagine. 

And that is precisely why Dean and Sam need to be here. 

Everything is going to change tonight. 

* * *

 Pete really really does not want to make this call. 

He stares at his phone, sitting so innocently on his desk, challenging him, mocking him. 

As soon as he makes the call, everything is going to change. It'll set wheels in motion that won't ever be stopped. That will tip his life upside down and hang it there by its toes, forever. 

But there's no other choice.

His hand trembles as he reaches for the receiver and he scowls at himself for being such a coward.

He shouldn't have to make the damn call in the first place. He should be competent enough to sort this out on his own. Smart enough to figure out whatever is was that Novak had been lucky enough to stumble upon during their last conversation. But the fed won't even take his calls. 

Pete grimaces as he realizes he might have scared off his only chance of keeping things anywhere in the vicinity of normal. His only chance at finding those damn boys. 

Those damn boys...

* * * 

_"Kids are hardly the most dependable liars."_

* * * 

 

No, Pete decides. Not yet.

He has one last trick up his sleeve.

* * *

  _"This is Dean's other other cell, so you must know what to do." Beep._

The message plays over for the fourth time and Cas lets the phone drop from his hand. He's left Dean three separate messages and sent over a dozen texts, each practically begging the boy to come in or at least to let Cas know that he and his brother were alright.

Cas isn't positive what's come over him lately. How he's let his personal feelings bleed so profusely into this case. It's something to do with that boy, he knows. It's all he knows. That, and that he has to find him. Now. Something is warning him, screaming in his head, sending tingles ricocheting across his body. He has to find Dean. It's become his only priority. But how?

Singer hadn't given him much. Even after the man had agreed to help there wasn't a whole lot he could offer Cas from South Dakota. All he could really do was to inform Castiel that John Winchester never left anything up to chance. Every move and happenstance was always meticulously calculated and if John's children were in the wind it was because John wanted it that way. That and to let Cas know that Dean was incredibly obedient to father in all ways but one: He would put Sam before anything. Before a job, before his father's wishes, before his own life.

But Cas had already kind of figured that.

Cas sits for a while, contemplating. Thoughts of all shapes and sizes rolling around inside his head. He thinks about John. He thinks about Dean. He thinks about Sam. He thinks about the love Dean has for his brother. Thinks about the rough and tumble life they lead. The stress and fear that follow them around like a wild dog stalking its prey. Thinks about how miserable they must be, loyal though they are, dogging along in their father's looming shadow. Thinks about thoughts he's had before. About how these boys had finally, finally snatched a chance to be away from him, for however breif a time. 

Cas realizes there's a very good chance the boys had met up with their father right away. But maybe, just maybe, not. 

Maybe Dean would have taken this opportunity to give something positive to his brother and to himself before diving straight back into the world of darkness they'd so fleetingly breached. 

Maybe Dean would want to do something  _fun._

Cas sits up straight like a bolt of lightning had punched through his frame. The  _rightness_ of this thought sends the tingles spiraling across his skin in every direction. He's onto something. He _knows_ it. 

Now. Just where would a ten and fourteen year old boy go for fun? 

* * *

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

  _~Nearby Are Yellow Eyes~_

_~Meet me yesterday. Yellow.~_

Dean stares at the texts again and bites his lip. Still no new messages. Apart from the ones from Castiel.

Dean's nerves are all jangled. This radio silence is not part of the plan. His father and Jim were meant to stay in contact. He could understand why his father might have fallen off the radar, any number of complications might have come up to keep him from contacting his children. His dad was extra cautious that way. But Pastor Jim? Something must have gone very wrong. 

"Anything?" Asks Sammy beside him.

Dean shakes his head.

"That's bad."

"Not...bad," says Dean carefully, trying to reassure himself as much as his brother, "Just means we might be on our own for now." 

"But what if he shows up?"

"He won't. Dad said."

"Dad could be wrong."

"He's never wrong." 

"Jesus, Dean," says Sam, rolling his eyes, "He's not  _God_. He can be wrong."

Dean sighs, not in the mood to have this fight again. Even at ten years old Sammy could go at it with the best of them and never so much as with their father. John and Sam were at eachother's throats more often than not, forcing Dean to play referee far more frequently than he ever cared to. And a good portion of the brothers' fights were about this very subject. Sam seemed to take issue with Dean's unquestioning obedience. He'd once called Dean weak for following orders without even asking why. But Dean knows he's just being a good son. Sammy will have learn that too, one day. 

"If he shows up we'll deal with it."

Sam just snorts.

"Like you dealt with that Gordon guy? Let's just pray Dad's not wrong."

Dean doesn't answer. He stares down the aisle toward the double doors. And he prays that his dad isn't wrong. 

* * *

When Cas shows Sam and Dean's picture to the arcade manager he recognizes them right away. Apparently, they'd caused quite a ruckus by hustling some of the other children out of their tickets. And once they'd accumulated a record-breaking amount, they'd split without claiming any prizes, leaving their tickets abandoned on the floor inciting ruckus number two. The boys had boarded a north-bound bus after exiting the arcade according to some of the other kids, but after that the trail got much colder.

Cas arrives back at the office and pulls up the list of stops for the particular bus. In an amazing stroke of luck, the list is short. Only four other stops before the end of the line. He brings the news to Anna.

"How did you find them?" She asks.

Cas hesitates. What is he supposed to say?  _Um, I have a quasi-magical sixth sense and a freakish connection to Dean Winchester I can't explain._

"I found an old associate of John's. Bobby Singer. He pointed me in the right direction."  _Sort of._

"Well, however you did it, this is amazing. Let's go."

The two of them head off to canvas the four stops. The first three are dead ends. The last one leads them to a sketchy area just on the outskirts of town. They show the boys' pictures around and wind up outside an old church. It's a shabby looking place from the outside. Pieces of stone broken off, wood splintering, the old bell rusted and dull from disuse. It's dusk by this time, the setting sun casting strange colors over the dim landscape. There's something very ominous about the chapel itself and a kind of sick unease hovers in the air surrounding it, like something undead is lurking in the numerous shadows, like malignance has taken root in the very trees, like like a thousand painful deaths have found their resting place in the cemetery around back. 

Looking at it, Cas feels himself grow cold.

They pull open the heavy doors with a sickening creak. It's dark inside. No light source is visible aside from the fading sun trickling in through the tinted windows. And it's quiet.

"Cover me," says Anna. 

Cas waits in the threshold as Anna moves into the darkness. There's one panicky moment when he loses sight of her, but then there's a loud, echoing _click_ and suddenly the space is flooded with light. 

The chill in Cas's bones sinks deeper as he looks around. There is nothing specific which makes him feel uneasy but the interior of the church is about what you'd expect from the outside. It's simple and old, with same sense of foreboding permeating the air. Cas looks along the short aisle up to the darkly colored alter and feels himself shudder. Something evil happened here. He can sense it.

Cas swallows hard, fighting the urge to flee.

"Anna?" He calls.

"Over here!" 

He heads toward the direction of her voice. Rounding the corner of the confessionals, he freezes in his tracks.

"Hello again, Agent," says a familiar voice.

* * *

  _6 Hours Earlier_

Patience is a very important quality for a killer. Without patience, you get hasty. When you get hasty, things get messy. And when things get messy, everything goes to shit very very fast. Pete Sheridan may not be dripping with virtue, but patience is something at which he excels. He wouldn't have lasted very long at all if it weren't.

It had taken patience to work his way up through the ranks to Detective. It took patience to wait for that golden opportunity to come along to make him richer than he could ever hope be on a government salary alone. It took patience to carefully feed just information to Alistair to keep the payoffs and drugs coming his way. 

And it took patience to frame John Winchester for all the murders he's had to cover along the way. Both his own and others' under Lilith's command. 

It was only when he started to lose his patience, when all the threads of his carefully woven tapestry of lies and deceit had started coming undone at a rapid pace that his world had started falling to shit. If he'd only had the opportunity to be more patient, he could have waited to murder Karen Giles. Would have waited to help Winchester "escape." Wouldn't have rushed into his interrogation of Agent Novak.

But time was not on his side.

Now, though, Pete needs to be patient one more time. And this time the payoff will be bigger than ever.

Pete sits in a car borrowed from impound a little ways down the block from an out-of-the-way arcade. He's trailing Mr. Novak. It's his hail mary pass. If he can't get the fed to tell him where those boys went, then this is the next best thing. 

He follows Novak back to headquarters, then all around town in a seemingly random collection of stops. But Pete is patient. He waits. 

It pays off.

Long after the sun has started to set, Novak and Milton pull into the parking lot of an old church on the edge of town. There's something very creepy about the building that Pete can't quite put his finger on, but he shakes it off. He won't be rattled. Not now.

The place is perfect. 

Pete parks the car and scurries in the back door before the two agents even cut the engine. 

He makes a call. 

* * *

Everyone is disappearing. 

First John Winchester escapes, then Pete goes missing, then Karen Giles doesn't show for the boys' transfer which didn't matter because the  _boys_ had disappeared. And now Pete's gone missing  _again_. 

They have only one lead on the others, the pastor from Minnesota who, on the report of the FBI office there, has also vanished into thin air, leaving them with exactly squat.

And on top of all that, it's starting to look like Giles might actually be missing. No one's heard from her in two days and, according to her partner, just falling off the radar like this is completely out of character for her. 

Diana is having trouble keeping herself together. The last time her partner and John had gone missing together, it had turned out Pete was responsible. Now, Pete's gone missing once more while John, Karen and the boys are all in the wind. She doesn't like it. She hates herself for it, but something about this doesn't sit well at all. 

She tries to shake the intruding, nagging, nasty thought from her mind. Pete would never. She trusts him with her life. He is more than her partner, he's her friend, her confidant, and, yes, her lover.

She knows it's against the rules, they both do, but they just couldn't help themselves. And something about the forbiddenness of it all had just made it that much more exciting. She loves him. And yet...

Nothing about this situation is adding up the way it's supposed to. There's holes no one seems to spot but her and they just keep getting bigger and bigger. Pretty soon the whole thing is going to tear down the middle and Diana has a terrible feeling about who's going to be standing on the other side when that curtain falls. 

Diana fingers the silver necklace around her throat and closes her eyes as the sinking feeling takes over.

"Oh, Pete," she whispers, "What have you done?"

* * *

_"Hello again, Agent."_

Castiel stops dead where he stands.

"So glad you could join us."

Anna stands, tense, gun pointed at the man holding a young boy to the front of his body like a human shield. The barrel of his own gun is pressed to the child's temple. Dean grips Detective Sheridan's forearm, chin lifted high so as not to choke. His eyes are wild and bright. They land on Castiel, fear clear as day, asking, begging for help.

"Gun on the floor," says Sheridan lightly, nodding at Anna, "You too, Agent Novak." 

"What's going on?" Asks Cas, eyes fixed firmly on Dean or, more accurately, on the gun to his young friend's head.

"Where's the other one?" Anna demands, before the detective can answer. 

Right on queue, the back door bursts open and a large man stalks in, holding a squirming Sam against his chest. Sam immediately stops wriggling when he catches sight of his older brother with a glock to his head.

"Dean!" He cries, tears already streaming down his face. 

"It's okay, Sammy," Dean gasps.

"Shut up," snarls Sheridan, adjusting his hold roughly.

The monster stops a little ways away and drops Sammy to the floor, gripping him tightly by the shoulder. He pulls out a scary-looking blade and presses it to Sammy's throat.

Castiel feels his blood turn to ice.

"Like I said," says Sheridan, "Guns on the floor."

Anna shakes with anger and Castiel can feel something akin to rage boiling up inside of him too, but they do as they're told, kicking the guns across the floor toward the maniac. 

"What's going on?" Cas repeats, gaze still on Dean. 

"What's going on?" Sheridan practically chuckles, "I'll tell you what's going on. This is me. Finally taking control."

"The hell are you talking about?" Spits Anna. 

" _You_. You incompetent fools. And  _these,_ " he shifts Dean in his grip, "little shits have been making my life a living hell. It was all supposed to go so smoothly. But you lot seem to fuck up everything you touch."

"Or maybe that's you," offers Anna boldly.

She's trying to throw him off-guard, Cas knows, but he's not so sure he would have had the nerve to risk upsetting the man in that way, given the precious cargo he was currently threatening. 

"Funny," says Sheridan easily, "I'm glad you can make jokes. We should all be in such a good mood before we die."

"Is that a threat?"

Sheridan cocks his head, "Just fair warning. You haven't left me with a whole lot of choice, here. Winchester's in the wind and his boys refused to cooperate."

"They  _were_ cooperating!" Cas protests

"For you maybe. Not for me. Not the way I need them to."

Cas and Anna's expressions must have let on how crazy he sounded because he went on.

"You might as well know," the SOB continued, "John Winchester did  _not_ commit the murders we at the station have been working so hard to pin on him. Not that he's an angel, far from it. And, hell, he may have even dropped a body or two, who knows? But the point is, there's no evidence linking him to murder. So I've got to create some." 

"Why?"

"Why?" Pete chortles, "Why do you think?"

Anna puts it together first, "You're protecting someone."

"Bingo."

"You?"

Pete shrugs, "In part. But there's a much bigger picture here. One you idiots could scarcely wrap your minds around even if you bothered looking in the right fucking direction." 

"Why don't you enlighten us?"

"You'd like that wouldn't you? Get me monologuing while you search out an angle. Sorry, no such luck, agent. I'm a patient man, but time's run out. And so has yours."

Pete cocks his gun, "No, you won't live to tell this tale. As far as everyone out there will know, John Winchester is villain of this piece. And he's going to kill every last one of you. Starting with you," says the monster, leveling the weapon at Cas. 

Dean's eyes widen. 

"No!" He shouts, making a wild grab for the gun. The glock goes off with an earsplitting  _bang_ and for a moment Cas swears his heart stops. 

Anna drops to the floor, blood pouring from her temple. 

"No!" Cas echos.

Sheridan shakes Dean off his arm and throws him to the ground, refocusing the gun on the poor boy's frame. 

Cas falls to Anna's side.

"Stay where you are!" Sheridan shouts, swinging around and aiming the gun at Castiel. The second the barrel is away from him, Dean scrambles behind the pews, out of the line of fire. For now. 

Castiel stands, raises his hands, but his eyes are glued to Anna, panicked, desperately searching for signs of life. He thinks he sees her chest move and the relief is overwhelming. 

Sheridan glares at the space where Dean disappeared. 

"I should have known that little bastard would find a way to fuck this up. Oh, well," he says leveling the gun at Anna's motionless form, "In for a penny..."

"Wait!" Cas shouts. 

Suddenly, the man stops, staggers a little, and falls to his knees.

A dribble of blood escapes from his lips. 

Cas watches in horror as the short figure standing behind him, pulls the bloody knife from his back and expertly slices his throat with a sickening _squish_.

Young Dean looks up from his work, blood splattered across his face and clothes, meets Castiel’s horrified eyes, and _smiles_. Smiles a brilliant, deranged grin showing just how pleased he is with what he's just done and how thrilled he is that Cas has seen it.

"Sammy!" He shouts without looking away, tossing the knife aside.

Cas's eyes follow the path of the blade for just a moment, just long enough for him to see the even smaller hand reach out and catch it in midair. Sam quickly slashes the hand holding the knife to his throat. The villain shouts and drops his own blade with a clatter. Without turning around the ten-year old violently stabs the man in the thigh, then spins around and slices open his gut, simultaneously kicking him in the groin. The man crumbles to the floor with a groan.

A ten year old David taking out Goliath. 

By that point, Dean is standing by his little brother's side, gently taking the knife from his reddened hand, murmuring something to him quietly.

There's a loud honking, suddenly, and a distant shout of, "Boys! Now!"

Sammy gives his older brother's arm a yank before sprinting toward the double doors.

Dean hesitates a moment longer. He slowly turns back to Castiel, blood and sweat dripping down his face, but no sign of tears.

"See you, Angel," he says just loud enough for Cas to hear, then turns and disappears after his brother, lost to Cas forever.


	8. Chapter 8

In his final moments, Pete regrets not having made the call sooner. If he'd just sacked up and made the call, maybe all this could have been avoided and he wouldn't be waking up dead dead in just a few seconds. But all is not lost.

He did make a call, he did let his bosses know what was about to go down. What  _should_ have gone down, that is.

Those boys, those damnable boys, will get what's coming to them. And so will their father. Pete's death will be avenged in one form or another. 

Alistair knows he has a new enemy. The Winchesters will never be safe from him. Not if they live a million years.

This thought makes Pete smile as he dies.

* * *

 In the back of their father's car, the boys quietly wipe the blood from each others' faces. They don't speak. They wait for their dad.

Miles go by before he breaks the silence. 

"Dead?" He asks, making sure.

"Yes," says Dean.

"Both of them?"

"Yes."

Quiet for a minute.

"You both alright?"

"Yessir."

"Yessir."

Quiet again. 

"And the Feds?"

"The guy is fine," says Dean, carefully neutral, "The woman got hit." 

From behind Dean sees John's head nod as if this is an acceptable loss. 

"Do you think she'll be okay?" Sam speaks up.

John doesn't answer.

"I don't know, Sammy, " says Dean.

"Can we find out?"

"It's nothing to do with us," says John gruffly. 

Sammy frowns, "Of course it is! It's our fault she was there. And Dean's the one who grabbed the gun!"

John suddenly stops in the middle of the empty road and twists in his seat.

"You did  _what_?"

Dean swallows under his father's piercing glare. His dad doesn't know about Castiel. Doesn't know he is the Angel Dean used to talk about when he was little. Doesn't know that Dean could never, ever stand by and see him get hurt. 

"I was just buying time," says Dean and John continues to stare. "It worked." 

"Clearly it didn't if a civilian wound up shot," says his dad, always the soldier.

Dean looks down, ashamed 

His father's disappointment stings more than he can express. As much as Sam despises him for it, Dean lives and dies by his father's approval. And to have let him down so tremendously is a blow he'll have to work extra hard to recover from. Though, deep down, Dean suspects he never really does recover from that sort of thing, he just... pushes it down. Pushes it down far enough so that he can pile all new shit on top of it. Rinse. Repeat. 

He can only find solace in the knowledge that Castiel is safe. Safe because of him. Even if it was his dad's reckless plan that had put him in danger to start with. Dean hopes Castiel never figures out how thoroughly Dean had played him. Dropping all those little breadcrumbs... 

Playing up the part of the terrified abuse victim. Oh, so carefully leading him to Bobby. Making a scene at the arcade to guarantee they'd be remembered. Hiding out in an isolated church.

All so Castiel would follow him. 

And bring Sheridan and that enforcer right along with him. Ripe for the picking. 

If Dean was in the habit of praying to anything besides Castiel, he would have prayed then. Prayed that Castiel never found out the truth.

Because maybe then Castiel wouldn't like him.

And Dean wants,  _needs_ , Castiel to like him. To care about him. 

He really, really does. 

* * *

Castiel wakes from strange dreams when he hears his name. It breaks through the rush of blood and hand-shaped scars and long thick blades and guns and sleek black cars. Of churches and absentee Gods and worlds tipped upside down where children were murderers and those meant to serve and protect only stole and lied. Where scary pyromaniacs were innocent and the best of the best could be brought down by a single wayward bullet.

The single syllable comes whistling through, bringing him toward the light.

He jerks awake, hand automatically tightening in the loose one he holds.

"Anna!" He breathes, turning to face his fallen commander. He brings up his other hand to clutch both of theirs, "You're awake."

She stares at him, still groggy "If you can call it that," she mumbles irritably. 

Her head is heavily bandaged. "I was so worried," says Cas, "The doctors said it could be weeks before the swelling went down enough for you to-"

"How long has it been?" Anna cuts him off.

Cas opens his mouth and closes it again. It had been almost a week, but the doctors had warned him that news would come as a bit of shock. Best not to rush into it.

Anna changes her question.

"What happened? What happened with the boys and.. and that  _freak_?"

Castiel sighs. Talk about a shock.

"They got away. The boys," he starts with.

"And the assailants?" Anna presses, impatient.

Cas hesitates. Now would come the real shock. The shock that still shook him to the core to remember all these days later. Cas imagines he can still feel the phantom spray of blood on his face where Dean had slashed open Pete Sheridan's throat. Can still hear the whizz of the knife flying through the air, only to be caught by a demon in a child's tiny body.

"The boys  _were_ the assailants, Anna. I can't explain it. They killed them."

Anna frowns in confusion.

"I thought you said they got away?"

Cas stares up at the ceiling.

"The boys took out the men, Anna. After you went down... I don't know what happened. They just..." He trails off. He can't make himself say it. Not again. 

By the time he looks back down, Anna is lost in thought. Her expression a familiar mix of horror and confusion.

"But," she whispers, "They're  _children_."

"I know."

Cas isn't sure he'll ever recover from what he saw that night. Doesn't think there'll ever come a day when he doesn't think of it. Doesn't shudder to remember it.

But even worse than that is the sting of betrayal. Of knowing Dean Winchester, the innocent boy from the fire, the boy with the brilliant green eyes, is a monster in disguise. And he had played Cas for every cent he was worth. Leading him on with his tears and his lies. They both had.

In spite of all that though, Cas can't help wondering if it all really was a lie. How much truth was hidden in those conversations, those looks? Those bruises had to come from somewhere. Cas thinks about what Dean said about the drugs, and how it all lined up with what Cas already suspected. He thinks about the "tattoo," thinks about the way Dean had called him his "Angel." Once in the interrogation room and then again right before he'd fled.

That part, Cas, realizes with a start, could not have been a lie. Dean'd had no reason to lie to him then, no reason at all to call him "Angel" unless that name really meant something to him.

* * * 

_"I'll always remember you. You're my Angel."_

* * * 

Despite everything, despite the all deception and the twisted smiles and the blood, Dean Winchester cares about Castiel Novak on some level. Really believes Castiel is his Angel.

He really, really does.  

And Castiel will always remember that. 

No matter what the future brings. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of this one, guys! I know there are still many questions to be answered and the answers are coming! Be on a look out for the next installment, "Heaven Forbid." Lots of Love!


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